It was once or twice a week, at first; it started when we were kids. I was nine, and my sister, Sara, was six. Daddy would pick us up from school. He’d drive way out to the edge of town, almost out to the woods. This ain’t the way home, Sara would say, and I’d say, shut up Sara.

Daddy drove an old Ford Fairlane. A ’64, it was white with red leather seats. He would drive by the truck stops, where the ladies were who didn’t wear much clothes. He parked the car; we watched him out the back window. What’s he doing, Sara would ask, and I’d say, shut up Sara.

He was always gone about half an hour, and always came back with a smile. Your Momma don’t need to know about this, it’s our little secret, he’d say.

He’d make us supper, drink a few beers. Then Momma came home, they’d argue the rest of the night. Sara would cry with her head on my shoulder. They’ll get a divorce, she would say. I hope they do, I’d think to myself, and put my arms around her.

By the time I was twelve and Sara was nine, it was happening more and more. We drove out where the ladies were, three or four times a week. What are they doing, Sara would ask. I said, they're dancing, Sara, they’re dancing. She looked at me. That's silly, she said. And I said, shut up Sara.

They ask me now why we didn’t speak up, but what were we gonna say? We were kids and he was our Daddy. No one listened to us, anyway. After it was on the news, Momma sat us down. She told us men have needs. Some more than others, she explained. I gave Sara’s hand a squeeze.

We watched him walk up to the ladies there. It was warm in the car. Our legs used to stick to the seats. Would Daddy ever…Sara would ask, and I said, Sara, please; our neck of the woods, it’s all marshes and wetlands, fields that are all overgrown. Daddy always came back to the car with a smile, and always, he came back alone.